'Georges Conneau,' I said doubtfully, eyeing Poirot.
'Exactly. Now Giraud laid it down as an axiom that a woman lies to save herself, the man she loves, and her child. Since we are satisfied that it was Georges Conneau who did lie to her, and as Georges Conneau is nonot Jack Renauld, it follows that the third case is out of court Attributing the crime to Georges Conneau, the first is equally so. So we are forced to the second-that Madame Renauld lied for the sake of the man she loved-or in the other words, for the sake of Georges Conneau. You agree?'
'Yes,' I admitted. 'It seems logical enough.'
'Then Madame Renauld loves Georges Conneau. Who, then, is Georges Conneau?'
'The tramp.'
'Do we any evidence to show that Madame Renauld loved the tramp?'
'No, but -'
'Very well then. Do not cling to theories where facts do not support them. Ask yourself instead whom Madame Renauld did love.'
I shook my head perplexed.
'Mais oui, you know perfectly. Whom did Madame Renauld love so dearly, that when she saw his dead body she collapsed in a swoon?'
'Her husband?' I gasped dumbfounded.
'Her husband-or Georges Conneau whichever you like to call him yourself.'
'But it's impossible.'
'How "impossible"? Did we not agree just now that Madame Daubreuil was in a position to blackmail Georges Conneau?'
'Yes but-'
'And did she not very effectively blackmail Monsieur Renauld?'
'That may he true enough, but-'
'And is it not a fact that we know nothing of Monsieur Renauld's youth and upbringing? That he springs suddenly into existence as a French-Canadian exactly twenty-two years ago?'
'All that is so,' I said more firmly 'but you seem to me to be overlooking one salient point.'
'What is that my friend?'
'Why, we have admitted that Georges planned the crime. That brings us to the ridiculous statement that he planned his own murder!'
'Et bien, mon ami,' said Poirot placidly 'that is just what he did do!'
Chapter 21. Hercule Poirot on the Case
IN a measured voice Poirot began his exposition.
'It seems strange to you, mon ami, that a man should plan his own death? So strange, that you prefer to reject the truth as fantastic, and to revert to a story that is in reality ten times more impossible. Yes, Monsieur Renauld planned his own death but there is one detail that perhaps escapes you-he did not intend to die.'
I shook my head bewildered.
'But no, it is all most simple really,' said Poirot kindly. 'For the crime that Monsieur Renauld proposed a murderer was not necessary, as I told you, but a body was. Let us reconstruct, seeing events this time from a different angle.'
'Georges Conneau flees from justice-to Canada. There, under an assumed name, he marries, and finally acquires a vast fortune in South America. But there is a nostalgia upon him for his own country. Twenty years have elapsed, he is considerably changed in appearance, besides being a man of such eminence that no one is likely to connect him with a fugitive from justice many years ago. He deems it quite safe to return. He takes up his headquarters in England, but tends to spend the summers in France. And ill fortune, or that obscure justice which shapes men's ends and will not allow them to evade the consequences of their acts, takes him to Merlinville. There, in the whole of France, is the one person who is capable of recognizing him. It is, of course, a gold mine to Madame Daubreuil, and a gold mine of which she is not slow to take advantage. He is helpless, absolutely in her power. And she bleeds him heavily.'
'And then the inevitable happens. Jack Renauld falls in love with the beautiful girl he sees almost daily and wishes to marry her. That rouses his father. At all costs, he will prevent his son marrying the daughter of this evil woman.'
'Jack Renauld knows nothing of his father's past, but Madame Renauld knows everything. She is a woman of great force of character and passionately devoted to her husband. They take counsel together. Renauld sees only one way of escape-death. He must appear to die, in reality escaping to another country where he will start again under an assumed name and where Madame Renauld, having played the widow's part for a while, can join him. It is essential that she should have control of the money, so he alters his will. How they meant to manage the body business originally, I do not know-possibly an art student's skeleton and a fire-or something of the kind, but long before their plans have matured an event occurs which plays into their hands. A rough tramp, violent and abusive, finds his way into the garden.'
There is a struggle, Renauld seeks to eject him, and suddenly the tramp, an epileptic, falls down in a fit. He is dead. Renauld calls his wife. Together they drag him into the shed-as we know the event had occurred just outside-and they realize the marvellous opportunity that has been vouchsafed them. The man bears no resemblance to Renauld but he is middle-aged, of a usual French type. That is sufficient.'
'I rather fancy that they sat on the bench up there, out of earshot from the house, discussing matters. Their plan was quickly made. The identification must rest solely on Madame Renauld's evidence. Jack Renauld and the chauffeur (who had been with his master two years) must be got out of the way. It was unlikely that the French women servants would go near the body, and in any case Renauld intended to take measures to deceive anyone not likely to appreciate details. Masters was sent off, a telegram dispatched to Jack, Buenos Aires being selected to give credence to the story that Renauld had decided upon. Having heard of me as a rather obscure elderly detective, he wrote his appeal for help, knowing that when I arrived, the production of the letter would have a profound effect upon the examining magistrate-which, of course, it did.'
'They dressed the body of the tramp in a suit of Renauld's and left his ragged coat and trousers by the door of the shed, not daring to take them into the house. And then, to give credence to the tale Madame Renauld was to tell, they drove the aeroplane dagger through his heart. That night Renauld will first bind and gag his wife, and then, taking a spade, will dig a grave in that particular plot of ground where he knows a-how do you call it?-bunkair? is to be made. It is essential that the body should be found-Madame Daubreuil must have no suspicions. On the other hand, if a little time elapses, any dangers as to identity will be greatly lessened.'
'Then, Renauld will don the tramp's rags, and shuffle off to the station, where he will leave, unnoticed, by the train. Since the crime will be supposed to have taken place two hours later, no suspicion can possibly attach to him.'
'You see now his annoyance at the inopportune visit of the girl, Bella. Every moment of delay is fatal to his plans. He gets rid of her as soon as he can, however. Then, to work! He leaves the front door slightly ajar to create the impression that assassins left that way. He binds and gags Madame Renauld, correcting his mistake of twenty-two years ago, when the looseness of the bonds caused suspicion to fall upon his accomplice, but leaving her primed with essentially the same story as he had invented before, proving the unconscious recoil of the mind against originality. The night is chilly, and he slips on an overcoat over his underclothing, intending to cast it into the grave with the dead man. He goes out by the window, smoothing over the flowerbed carefully, and thereby furnishing the most positive evidence against himself. He goes out on to the lonely golf links, and he digs. And then-'
'Yes?'
'And then,' said Poirot gravely, 'the justice that he has so long eluded overtakes him. An unknown hand stabs him in the back. No, Hastings, you understand what I mean when I talk of two crimes. The first crime, the crime that Monsieur Renauld, in his arrogance, asked us to investigate, is solved. But behind it lies a deeper riddle. And to solve that will be difficult-since the criminal, in his wisdoms has been content to avail himself of the devices prepared by Renauld. It has been a particularly perplexing and baffling mystery to solve.'
'You're marvellous, Poirot,' I said, with admiration. 'Absolutely marvellous. No one on earth but you woul
d have done it!'
I think my praise pleased him. For once in his life he looked almost embarrassed.
'That poor Giraud,' said Poirot, trying unsuccessfully to look modest. 'Without doubt it is not all stupidity. He has had la mauvaise chance once or twice. That dark hair coiled round the dagger, for instance. To say the least, it was misleading.'
'To tell you the truth, Poirot,' I said slowly, 'even now I don't quite see-whose hair was it?'
'Madame Renauld's, of course. That is where la mauvaise chance came in. Her hair, dark originally, is almost completely silvered. It might just as easily have been a grey hair-and then, by no conceivable effort could Giraud have persuaded himself it came from the head of Jack Renauld! But it is all of a piece; Always the facts must be twisted to fit the theory!'
'Without doubt, when Madame Renauld recovers, she will speak. The possibility of her son being accused of the murder never occurred to her. How should it, when she believed him safely at sea on board the Aurora? Quelle femme, Hastings! What force, what self-command! She only made one slip. On his unexpected return: "It does not matter-now." And no one noticed-no one realized the significance of those words. What a terrible part she has had to play, poor woman. Imagine the shock when she goes to identify the body and, instead of what she expects, sees the actual lifeless form of the husband she has believed miles away by now. No wonder she fainted! But since then, despite her grief and her despair, how resolutely she has played her part and how the anguish of it must wring her. She cannot say a word to set us on the track of the real murderers. For her son's sake no one must know that Paul Renauld was Georges Conneau, the criminal. Final and most bitter blow, she has admitted publicly that Madame Daubreuil was her husband's mistress-for a hint of blackmail might be fatal to her secret. How cleverly she dealt will the examining magistrate when he asked her if there was any mystery in her husband's past life. "Nothing so romantic, I am sure, monsieur." It was perfect, the indulgent tone, the soupcon of sad mockery. At once Monsieur Hautet felt himself foolish and melodramatic. Yes, she is a great woman! If she loved a criminal, she loved him royally?'
Poirot lost himself in contemplation.
'One thing more Poirot. What about the piece of lead-piping?'
'You do not see? To disfigure the victim's face so that it would be unrecognisable. It was that which first set me on the right track. And that imbecile of a Giraud, swarming all over it to look for match ends! Did I not tell you that a clue of two foot long was quite as good as a clue of two inches? You see, Hastings, we must now start again. Who killed Monsieur Renauld? Someone who was near the villa just before twelve o'clock that night someone who would benefit by his death-the description fits Jack Renauld only too well. The crime need not have been premeditated. And then the dagger!'
I started, I had not realized that point. 'Of course,' I said, 'Mrs. Renauld's dagger was the second one we found in the tramp. There were two, then?'
'Certainly, and, since they were duplicates, it stands to reason that Jack Renauld was the owner. But that would not trouble me so much. In fact, I had a little idea as to that. No, the worst indictment against him is again psychological-heredity, mon ami, heredity! Like father, like son-Jack Renauld, when all is said or done, is the son of Georges Conneau.'
His tone was grave and earnest and I was impressed in spite of myself.
'What is your little idea that you mentioned just now?' I asked.
For answer, Poirot consulted his turnip-faced watch, and then asked: 'What time is the afternoon boat from Calais?'
'About five, I believe.'
'That will do very well. We shall just have time.'
'You are going to England?'
'Yes, my friend.'
'Why?'
'To find a possible witness.'
'Who?'
With a rather peculiar smile upon his face, Poirot replied: 'Miss Bella Duveen.'
'But how will you find her-what do you know about her?'
'I know nothing about her-but I can guess a good deal. We may take it for granted that her name is Bella Duveen and since that name was faintly familiar to Monsieur Stonor, though evidently not in connexion with the Renauld family, it is probable that she is on the stage. Jack Renauld was a young man with plenty of money, and twenty years of age. The stage is sure to have been the home of his first love. It tallies, too, with Monsieur Renauld's attempt to placate her with a cheque. I think I shall find her all right-especially with the help-' And he brought out the photograph I had seen him take from Jack Renauld's drawer.'With love from Bella' was scrawled across the corner, but it was not that which held my eyes fascinated. The likeness was not first rate-but for all that it was unmistakable to me. I felt a cold sinking, as though some unutterable calamity had befallen me.
It was the face of Cinderella.
Chapter 22. I Find Love
For a moment or two I sat as though frozen, the photograph still in my hand. Then summoning all my courage to appear unmoved, I handed it back. At the same time I stole a quick glance at Poirot. Had he noticed anything? But to my relief he did not seem to be observing me. Anything unusual in my manner had certainly escaped him.
He rose briskly to his feet. 'We have no time to lose. We must make our departure with all dispatch. All is well-the sea it will be calm!'
In the bustle of departure, I had no time for thinking, but once on board the boat, secure from Poirot's observation, I pulled myself together, and attacked the facts dispassionately.
How much did Poirot know, and why was he bent on finding this girl? Did he suspect her of having seen Jack Renauld commit the crime? Or did he suspect- But that was impossible!
The girl had no grudge against the elder Renauld, no possible motive for wishing his death. What had brought her back to the scene of the murder? I went over the facts carefully. She must have left the train at Calais where I parted from her that day. No wonder I had been unable to find her on the boat. If she had dined in Calais, and then taken a train out to Merlinville, she would have arrived at the Villa Geneviève just about the time that Françoise said.
What had she done when she left the house just after ten?
Presumably either gone to an hotel, or returned to Calais.
And then? The crime had been committed on Tuesday night. On Thursday morning she was once more in Merlinville.
Had she ever left France at all? I doubted it very much.
What kept her there-the hope of seeing Jack Renauld? I had told her (as at the time we believed) that he was on the high seas en route to Buenos Aires. Possibly she was aware that the Aurora had not sailed. But to know that she must have seen Jack. Was that what Poirot was after? Had Jack Renauld, returning to see Marthe Daubreuil, come face to face instead with Bella Duveen the girl he had heartlessly thrown over?
I began to see daylight. If that were indeed the case, it might furnish Jack with the alibi he needed. Yet under those circumstances his silence seemed difficult to explain. Why could he not have spoken out boldly? Did he fear for this former entanglement of his to come to the ears of Marthe Daubreuil? I shook my head, dissatisfied. The thing had been harmless enough, a foolish boy-and-girl affair, and I reflected cynically that the son of a millionaire was not likely to be thrown over by a penniless French girl, who moreover loved him devotedly, without a much graver cause.
Poirot reappeared brisk and smiling at Dover, and our journey to London was uneventful. It was past nine o'clock when we arrived, and I supposed that we should return straight away to our rooms and do nothing till the morning.
But Poirot had other plans.
'We must lose no time, mon ami. The news of the arrest will not be in the English papers until the day after tomorrow, but still we must lose no time.'
I did not quite follow his reasoning, but I merely asked how he proposed to find the girl.
'You remember Joseph Aarons, the theatrical agent? No? I assisted him in a little matter of a Japanese wrestler. A pretty little problem, I must recount i
t to you one day.'
'He, without doubt, will be able to put us in the way of finding out what we want to know.'
It took us some time to run Mr. Aarons to earth, and it was after midnight when we finally managed it. He greeted Poirot with every evidence of warmth, and professed himself ready to be of service to us in any way.
'There's not much about the profession I don't know,' he said, beaming genially.
'Et bien, Monsieur Aarons, I desire to find a young girl called Bella Duveen.'
'Bella Duveen. I know the name, but for a moment I can't place it. What's her line?'
'That I do not know-but here is her photograph.'
Mr. Aarons studied it for a moment, then his face lighted.
'Got it!' He slapped his thigh. 'The Dulcibella Kids, by the Lord!'
'The Dulcibella Kids?'
'That's it. They're sisters. Acrobats, dancers, and singers. Give quite a good little number. They're in the provinces, somewhere, I believe-if they're not resting. They've been on in Paris for the last two or three weeks.'
'Can you find out for me exactly where they are?'
'Easy as a bird. You go home, and I'll send you round the dope in the morning.'
With this promise we took leave of him. He was as good as his word. About eleven o'clock the following day, a scribbled note reached us.
'The Dulcibella Sisters are on at the Palace in Coventry. Good luck to you.'
Without more ado, we started for Coventry. Poirot made no inquiries at the theatre, but contented himself with booking stalls for the variety performance that evening.
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